


A Star is Born

by Plankwieldinghuntys



Category: Jeffree Star (Musician)
Genre: Dark Arts, MUA - Freeform, Magic, Occult, Satanism, Vampires, Wicca, YouTube, beauty community
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plankwieldinghuntys/pseuds/Plankwieldinghuntys
Summary: On the eve of the launch of his new 'Thirsty' eyeshadow palette, Jeffree decides to open the doors of his elusive Hidden Hills home for one night and one night only...





	1. “Nobody ever comes in and nobody ever comes out”

Jeffree awoke to the shrill chirping of one of his flock of Pomeranians, scampering its French tipped manicured paws across the pink Egyptian cotton sheets towards him, and tearing a slice of zucchini from his resting eyes. Not flinching, with a sharp swat of one of his gnarled tennis-racket-like hands, he sent the creature soaring across the expanse of the room and through the French windows, landing with a sorry burbling drown in the heated pool; the fourth pooch to meet its watery grave this month. Peeling the vacuum packed pink crinoline sheets from his skeletal frame, he fastened his bespoke Valentino velvet robe around his 20 inch waist, and shrugging off the whimpers from a bound and gagged Nate, who’d been duct-taped to the Sistine Chapel replica ceiling for a couple of weeks now after their last date night, he slipped some fresh tissue boxes onto his clawed feet and padded out to the balcony for his daily wake and bake. It was 9:36am; god alive, he felt supple.   
Cracking open his first Red Bull of the day, he swilled the sparkling red elixir round the can with the grace of a Parisian wine taster, and took a fat sip.  
“Mmm,” he gasped, as the cool liquid hit his botoxed trachea. “Sulphur.”  
Years ago it would’ve been a vicious cocktail of black-tar heroin, bath salts, and ketamine jolting him off the ash-caked floor in the morning (if the blue lights didn’t do so first) but these days he’d settled into a tamer “wake, break and bake” routine to get him going; cracking a couple of meth crystals into his gorilla glue laced maryjane in the morning for the ultimate hit. Lighting up his favourite pipe – made from the real femur bone of Ted Bundy – he inhaled deeply as the hot muggy Calabasas sun dazzled across the valley. Tonight was going to be a night this city would never forget; a celebratory bash for his latest eye shadow palette release. He didn’t usually open the doors of his hidden hills McMansion for anyone, save the odd street corner gal to service Nate on nights when he had a full body chemical peel scheduled, but he knew once he started releasing invites, the cream of the crop of LA society would be dying to be seen in his humble home. 

 

His next duty of the day was reviving Lipstick Nick from her cryogenic chamber so she could get to work on the ten hour beat he’d programmed her to perfect on his mug for tonight’s soiree. Through his dazzling charm and some dubious mafia connections he had most of the Western world convinced that he was the sole talent behind his marvellous make-up creations; little did they know though, that after years of intravenous drug abuse and a crippling hand-job addiction, he’d lost 95% of the function in his lower extremities – save for the little energy exertion needed to open a Red Bull or take a selfie – and so had Lipstick Nick grown in a lab at Anastasia Beverly Hills to be his devoted artist and apprentice.   
Settling down into his leather recliner, as Nick set about priming his face with infant urine, he popped open Snapchat on his Gucci wrapped iPhone X and willed his serotonin receptors into activation.  
“Good morning, every-body!” he grinned, trying not to get too much of Nick’s fat hands in his light. “My girl Nick’s here BEATING this motherfucking face for my launch party tonight! Sneak peeks will be coming soon but I’mma be real busy tonight so! Suck a dick!”  
Closing the app with a manicured flourish he got on to ordering his trusty fleet of 500 robomaids (as if he would put his house in the hands of REAL hired help!) to deep clean the mansion from top to bottom. After some recent shenanigans, things had gotten even more “unkempt” around here than usual; the pillows needed bleaching, the spunk on the walls needed scraping, and the trap door hinges needed oiling. It was also a Star party custom to have bespoke satin-lined quilted “beds”, custom made to every attendee’s height and width measurements, reinforced with a sturdy mahogany lid in every guest bedroom – only the finest luxuries for drunken revellers’ to pass out peacefully into a deep dark slumber! 

As he waited for the banana powder to bake on his creviceless face (he was due another tightening soon, now that he came to think of it) he padded round the mansion, opera glasses in hand, ensuring every last nook and cranny was spick and span; no limited edition Supreme coaster or Jane Mansfield auction house heirloom went unturned when Jeffree was on the prowl. After making sure the gilded gold gift bags were fully stocked with “lightly used” Jeffree Star Cosmetics knick knacks, and double checking the buffet was well prepped with chocolate Magnums, Taco Bell and Cinnabon delights, it seemed there was nothing left to do but select the perfect outfit to mark the occasion; something that embodied the ethos of the Thirsty palette…  
With an acrylic talon Jeffree punched in the passcode for his temperature-controlled air-locked walk-in wardrobe, and slid open the doors he’d had painted the same shade of magenta as his favourite dog Dolce’s inner labia. Before he could step a Kleenex-clad hoof inside though he suddenly remembered! Speaking of closeted items, someone really ought to tug Nate down from the ceiling! He couldn’t risk the tape being up there any longer in case it damaged the paintwork!

After patching through a request to release Nate to his housekeeping fleet, he ran his hands through the racks of bespoke Gucci originals, vintage Oriental silks, and real mink stoles, and finally rested upon the perfect garment. The craftsmanship, the decadence of the material and its mesmerising colour story; it simply had to be this piece! Grasping the cushioned hanger in one hand, he disrobed from his housecoat with the other, allowing it to pool at his box-clad toes, and slipped into the garment. He let out an audible gasp as he admired himself in the mirror; he looked boots the house down fucking sickening. A generous show of leg, an exposed clavicle, and a tie-waist to cinch his desired hourglass frame; this navy terry-cloth bathrobe from Ross Dress for Less was utterly…magnificent.   
Padding back out to where Lipstick Nick had been momentarily powered down whilst she awaited his return, he sidestepped a wriggling Nate as the house-bots sheared him free from his gaffer tape restraints.   
“Yo, what’s up, babe?” he breathed, as his gag was finally removed. “What day is it?”  
“Hi baby!” Jeffree cooed, sitting himself back in the makeup chair without even glancing at his other half. “Start getting the DJ booth set up yeah? And make sure the dogs are fed.”  
On cue, Delicious and Dildo started howling from the garden below, no doubt having discovered their brethren’s water-logged corpse floating in the heated pool.   
“Ahh listen to them,” Jeffree sighed, as Nick powered back on and began perfecting his cut crease. “What music they make! Children of the night!”  
And tonight would be a night that was truly like no other…


	2. Imbeciles, outcasts, and other vermin...

As the clock struck nine, Jeffree was ready and waiting, perched, sprawled out on the marble replica of Jeff Koons ‘Michael Jackson and Bubbles’ (1998) in the grand foyer of his McMansion, Gucci slides on, Ross Dress for Less towel robe cinched around his skeletal frame, a trusty dog in his lap – perfectly prepared for welcoming guests inside his humble home.  
Nate was suited and booted by the door in a pink Gucci suit with matching pink lapels, playing butler for the evening; Nick was set to maid mode, balancing a tray of Jeffree Star logo-ed voluvants on each flabby arm. Showtime!

Right on cue, the doorbell rang – a tonal arrangement of Jeffree’s hit song ‘Beauty Killer’ played on 24 carat gold wind chimes – and Nate pulled back the vintage Tudor oak (one of several doors from Henry VIII’s castle that Jeffree had snagged at an auction of British royalty memorabilia at Sotheby’s last year, along with Wallis Simpson’s hat box collection and the consecrated remains of King Charles II). There, stretched out on the mat – wearing nothing but a pink mink stole, assless leather chaps, and a black baseball cap that read ‘Thirty, flirty and fun!’ in crusty diamonte – lay none other than the spidery body of Gothic playboy of the Western world: Marilyn Manson. Pulling a full bunch of dyed black roses from – seemingly, worryingly – out of nowhere, he sprang to his feet with a flourish and purred like a panther.  
“Ooh la la, la la, la la!” he cooed, flouncing into the house and pulling a bottle of Ciroc Raspberry from his arse crack. “By Jove! Jeffree!” he gasped, walking over to Nate and feeling his face in a pair of lace fingerless-gloved hands. “You’ve been to see Doctor Miami again I see!”   
Taken aback by the haggard goth’s advances, Nate whirled round anxiously, looking for Jeffree but he was all of a sudden nowhere to be seen. Right on cue, with a shrill guttural shriek, the man of the hour swept down from the ceiling, dressing gown billowing like a fruit bat and landed with a twirl in front of them.  
“I bid you wel- oh, its only you,” he sniffed, his face dropping (although technically, with all the silicone he had in there, it shouldn’t be able to) when he realised who it was, abandoning what was clearly a planned grand speech. “Come on then, shoes by the door, coats down the hall!”  
He clapped and Lipstick Nick dutifully removed the mink from Marilyn’s shoulders and escorted him out of the foyer.  
“Ugh,” Jeffree sighed, heaving himself back on to the marble plinth, and turning to a still visibly shaken Nate. “No honestly, I only did it out of courtesy! I thought the fucker was already dead!”  
Smoothing back a strand of stiff platinum hair along his surgically enhanced hairline he cleared his throat.  
“Right! Places, people! People, places!”

 

After a cool wait of 2 hours, frozen in their designated greeting positions (Jeffree having to constantly reassure a panick-stricken Nate that yes, urine would wash out of Gucci tropical lightweight linen), during which time Marilyn had cleared out the mini profiteroles and passed out on a pink satin chaise lounge after half a bottle of Myx Moscato and a heated Facetime call with Rose McGowan, the sudden scuttling of lice across the marble floors from under the doorframe heralded the arrival of Bella Thorne and Tana Mongeau.  
A quick hazmat-suit change later and Nate welcomed them inside, spraying industrial strength Raid in their wake. Dressed in head-to-toe Discount Universe discount rack finds, and with a body stench one could only describe as “affronting”, Bella flashed the Stars a newly front-toothless grin and coughed up a still lit joint.  
“I brought you this roach, dude!” she beamed.  
“Several of them, I see!” Nate grimaced, as at least six small as yet unidientified species of Apterygota dropped dead from her matted pink mop of freshly dreadlocked hair. “How very…exotic!”   
Taking the soggy blunt in a vinyl-gloved hand, he discreetly fed it to one of the dogs as Tana pushed her way past him, grossly engaged in a hysterical phone call to the one and only Shane Dawson.  
“It’s so fucked up, Shane!” she wailed, tossing her piss-blonde extensions over her shoulder dramatically, several tracks coming free and scattering across the floor. “Tanacon was meant to be a safe space! I’ll never make the deposit back NOW!”  
As he picked them up dutifully behind her, Nate couldn’t help noticing her rather interesting new dye job. On top of her usual chlorine-bleach job, there seemed to be arthouse polka dot splotches of white dy-oh, never mind.   
Some questions were better left unasked. That’s some sobering advice papa had given him as he ironed his white hood one lonely Sunday night before going “to the store for a Playgirl and a pack of Camels” and never coming back. God, how Nate missed that rustic old man and his stories! How he missed mama’s apple pie and the summer bonfires and how the eyes of the portrait of the Reagans above the fireplace followed you around the room… In his quieter moments of contemplation, when observing Jeffree’s nightly five hour “de-skin” routine or when he was ordered to destill the goat blood in the fridge for one of Jeffree’s “health shakes”, he caught himself idly nostalgically daydreaming of his life back on the ranch…it seemed like a whole other world away, a world where the median age was 67 and people thought “Gucci” was an off-shoot of the Taliban…  
Snapping back to reality with a click of Jeffree’s pristine clawed hands, he ushered the girls out of the foyer and through to the “designated party area” where Marilyn was now drunkenly filing his toe-nails with a cold pastrami.   
“Oh dope, Sharon Osbourne!” Bella exclaimed, rushing to snap a selfie with the inebriated goth.   
Tana was still moaning unintelligibly as the doorbell went again and Nate backed out of the room and back to where Jeffree was fiddling with his catheter atop the marble plinth.   
“Who could it be?” Jeffree thought, as the bell rang again in exasperation, gleefully hoping it was someone supple and healthy because God knows there wouldn’t be much harvesting off this bunch…they were a right job lot for the knacker’s yard. Hold up…did he just say that aloud?

Before anyone had time to react to his faux pas however, the door had been booted open, its weight knocking Nate sideways against the wall, and revealing the pint-sized Bhad Bhabie, leering menacingly in its wake.  
“Wassup hoes!” she squawked, sauntering inside and presenting Jeffree with a bunch of squashed daisies and some hotel bar Grey Goose miniatures.   
“I see you’ve…dressed for the occasion!” Jeffree simpered, eyeing up her heather grey Fashion Nova spaghetti strap top, her tangled nude bra straps peaking out underneath adding an elegant touch.   
“Fuck wit it, bich,” the tween retorted, taking a hit off a Juul as she stared him dead in the eye.  
Jeffree self-consciously fiddled with the collar of his towelled robe, struggling to maintain a fixed smile across his stiffening face, before hopping off his perch and straightening himself out.   
“How about something from the buffet?!” he exclaimed, digging his claws into the fresh-faced starlet’s arm as he guided her through the mansion. “Some Viennese saus – OH GOOD GOD! MARILYN!”  
“UGhhh sorry man,” Marilyn slurred, scratching his head, looking forlornly around the room where piles of discarded salami, pepperoni and bologna lay strewn, save for one lone biroldo that Bella had fashioned into a pipe. “None of them seemed to be sharp enough!”  
He wiggled his jammy toes at Jeffree and hiccupped.  
“Get out,” Jeffree demanded. “Now!”  
“Heyyyy!” Bella jumped in, slinging a greasy arm around him and stuffing the “pipe” between his lips. “Chillax man! I got the good stuff right here!”  
“Get off me, beatnik!” Jeffree screeched, his faint pulse now murmuring erratically.  
Baphomet below, what had he done? It was only the start of the night and already his mansion was overrun with imbeciles, outcasts and other vermin…surely he’d included some guests of substance on the invite list???

Right on cue, a heavy-set stomp echoed from down the hallway as the undeniable stench of Popeye’s chicken, Britney Spears’ Midnight Fantasy, and middle-aged spunk filled the air.

“Coo-ee! Baby fishies!!!” 

Jeffree breathed as much of a sigh of relief as his stoner’s lungs would allow him; it suddenly seemed that the night wasn’t going to be so much of a loss after all…


	3. A True Buffet of Talent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long with this chapter, hunnies! Have been overwhelmed by the support for this fic - hope you all enjoy this ooky spooky update! xxx

“TriSHA!” Jeffree exclaimed in relief, throwing his badminton-racket paws in the air dramatically and sending a silver platter from the buffet table flying, showering a once-again comatose Marilyn Manson in a cascade of top-bun-less McDonalds’ cheese burgers. “Thank Lucifer you’re here!”  
“Oh, I didn’t know you’d made food!” Trisha gasped, peeling a hairy burger from the rug and munching down. “I already stopped at Taco Bell and Olive Garden on the way but…a post-post-meal appetizer didn’t kill anyone!”  
“Oh, come here you!” Jeffree cooed, wrapping her in a strategic embrace to get a good feel of her ample frame.  
‘Hmmm,’ he thought to himself, over the sound of her freshly pumped lips smacking between mouthfuls of burger. ‘We’ll keep her in the freezer this time’  
He found it increasingly handy to have some spare fat deposit back-ups for his transfer surgeries, especially now that with his fast-paced schedule he had less time to feed Nate.  
“You’re looking radiant this evening, gorgeous!” he mock-gushed, stepping back to get an accurate measure of her height-to-fat ratio.  
Trisha let out of a squeal of delight as she dug a Popeye’s napkin out from her cleavage to wipe her mouth – this was the first time she’d left her kitchen floor in 25 days and two months since she’d left the house altogether. As she snugly fit in to the space beside Marilyn on the chaise lounge, Diva and Dildo pounced over, excitedly licking the burger grease from her chin, instantly making her feel right at home; the fleet of neighbourhood dogs who would call and response her kitchen-breakdowns – her wails having reached a frequency only discernible to canines, fruit bats and the ISS – usually sound tracked her post-kitchen-breakdown mukbangs and she’d come to consider them old friends.

Jeffree took in the sorry sight before him and realised now things technically constituted a “party” of sorts and sighing, clicked his fingers at Nate who, already looking suitably dishevelled in his soiled Gucci threads, promptly took to the platinum pink DJ decks and adjusted his bejewelled custom Jeffree Star Cosmetics Beats by Dre headphones (#ad #sponsored).  
At once the surround sound speaker system began to boom “INNO A SATANA, A TE, DE L’ESSERE, PRINCIPIO IMMENSIO”, the ritualistic Latin chanting shaking the French windows in their frames. Shit.  
“Uhhhh no, no, no!” Jeffree exclaimed, face reddening, exasperatedly waving his arms and flashing a cut-throat gesture at Nate who, deafened by the chanting had gone into a trance. He flashed his guests an unconvincing porcelain-veneer grin and frustratedly slicked back his hair. “Just a toodle pip momento, my darlings! Lalalalala, bloody thing’s on the blink again!”  
He gave the decks an equally-unconvincing thump and turned to see Marilyn and, surprisingly, Bhad Bhabie tapping their feet to the rhythm.  
“Jeffree, I love this one…” she murmured, nodding her head, her accent lapsing into an unaffected Valley girl twang and catching him off guard. Could she be….  
Before he had time to respond, Nate ripping the needle from the decks with a screech that sent feedback echoing around the room broke him from his thoughts.  
“You idiot,” Jeffree hissed, slapping him across the face. “That was supposed to be queued for the witching hour!” He lowered his voice. “Et infra satanas ab ipso percutiat te!”  
“S-s-sorry dawg,” Nate stammered, rubbing his swollen cheek, quickly (or as quickly as a man dropped on his head from a height as a child could hope to) switching the track to ‘Boom Boom Pow (The Jeffree Star Mix)’.  
Jeffree anxiously mopped the two beads of sweat that had somehow pooled on his botoxed browbone (he’d have to get that sorted with Dr. Miami pronto!) with a cold hand – crisis averted. But as more guests started to pour into the mansion, how long could he keep the charade going?

 

“Alright, has everybody got their buddy? Anyone need a toilet break before we go? This is the last time you’ll be able to untuck before the minibus gets here ladies!”  
Michelle Visage sighed as characteristically on cue, Laganja broke out of line to rush to the bathroom with a hurried “Sorry, mama!”  
“Someone go with her to make sure she doesn’t drink out of the bidet again!” Michelle snapped, checking her watch and craning for a look down the street. Dan the Van Man would be getting a piss poor Craigslist review if he kept them waiting any longer.  
There were 100 other ways she’d rather be spending this lowly Saturday night than shepherding a bus load of Ru girls to a house party in Hidden Hills, but she knew for a fact that even if Ru had known who Jeffree Star was to begin with (“What season was she on?”), he’d have wriggled his way out of it with some excuse or other. Oh, Lady Bunny just needed a kidney donor, did they? Well Michelle needed a glass of Vermouth straight on the rocks and her back blown out by Madonna’s strap pronto, but we can’t always get what we want!

Down the line of queens, all donning high-viz vests over their fits and holding onto a length of rope, Trixie smirked to herself, her Oh Honey palette prototype tucked snuggly between her breast padding. When Michelle had messaged the WhatsApp chat to announce Jeffree had extended an invite to the Drag Race cast for his elusive exclusive makeup release party, she’d RSVP’d faster than a fly on shit.  
“This is our chance, Trixie,” Shrinkle had implored her from her deathbed. “Do it for momma.”  
Tonight was going to be a night like no other – after all, justice was a glass of Sky vodka best served ice cold.

“Ok ladies!” Michelle bellowed, blowing her referee’s whistle as the minibus pulled up. “Let’s go! Quick march!”  
As the queens filed into the van, with a biblical reminiscence of the animals boarding the ark, she dug around in her bejewelled fanny pack and tapped the driver’s window.  
“Right,” she barked, as he wound the window down. “How much do I owe you, bud -SANTINO?!”  
It was none other Santino Rice, now making ends as a mini bus driver for hire, one within a rotation of jobs including, but not limited to, bingo hall caller, chief burger flipper at the Santa Monica Chuck E. Cheese and on weekends, Droopy at Disneyworld. Fuck’s sake, he’d only taken this shift tonight to get an inning into that Jeffree Star party and now he was gonna have to put up with this drag race shite all night too – he should’ve known when he swore he heard an “Absolutely!” from someone in the back.  
“Michelle!” he cried, feigning joy, hastily knocking his bag of wooden stakes and rosaries off the passenger seat. “What a pleasant surprise!”  
She shot him a steely glare and without saying another word, got in beside him.  
“Just drive,” she murmured, fishing a bumper pack of Xandrex from her fanny pack and dry swallowing six.  
“Wait,” said Trixie, leaning over to tap her shoulder. “There’s one spare seat, we’re forgetting – “  
“JUST DRIVE!” Michelle barked at Santino, turning the key in the ignition herself and pulling a giant pair of Elizabeth Taylor-esque shades over her eyes.  
“- Ganja,” Trixie sighed, as she was jolted back in her seat with a screech of Santino’s tyres and the bus sped off into the unforgiving night. 

 

The party was in full swing. Drinks were flowing, nasal bridges were eroding, and Jeffree had been trapped in a tepid twelve minute conversation about “where sperm go when they die” with James Charles, Tila Tequila and a little person who claimed to be a porn body double for Sean Connery, for ten minutes too long whenever the latest contingent of guests swept in, causing everyone to go buck fucking daft. It was a Drag Race ensemble of his favourite queens! Jeffree clasped his bony hands together and ran to the foyer to welcome them in personally – he’d hand selected the bunch to each of his taste and consistency preferences, a true buffet of talent. 

Trixie elbowed her way to the front of the pack as they minced off the bus, toes seductively hanging over the edge of her Perspex kitten heels, breast plate spilling out of her paisley mini dress like an overheating crock pot. She barely acknowledged the motley crew of has-beens and might-be’s that followed her on the last leg of the Ru-volting Halloween tour; tonight wasn’t about them or putting on appearances. This was about her and Jeffree and she wanted to be the first to greet the demonic old codger, to look him right in the soulless eyes. She was a gender-neutral skinny legend on a mission. A man (in a dress) with a plan. A SLW (suspiciously large woman) with her eyes on the prize. A –  
Christ, she was already monologuing.

“Trixie!” Jeffree cooed, velour-robed arms outstretched. “How are y-“  
Smirking, Trixie shoved the house-coated waif out of her way, scanning the surrounding perimeter for a suspiciously hung painting or off-décor book-case…she’d watched enough Hammer Horror to know this mansion contained at least six secret safes and five hidden hallways, and enough Jeffree Star tutorials to know that this is where the headass Nosferatu-looking MF would keep the secret formula to his velour liquid lip. Not seeing anything too out of the ordinary, she grabbed Jeffree – still reeling from the first attack - by the dressing gown lapels and shook him like a doll.  
“Alright punk!” she barked. “Where’s the – “  
“Jeffree!” Adore suddenly squealed, racing over, pushing Trixie aside, and knocking the makeup mogul asunder once again in an affronting bear hug, her 40-inch tresses enveloping him in a temporary forest-green blindness.  
“Adore!” Jeffree coughed, pulling himself to his feet, and patting her head like a child as she was still clinging to his waist. “My darling!”  
He glared at Trixie who was now mingling with some of the lesser known Hiltons but occasionally stealing a glance at him over her padded shoulder, Adore babbling away about a picture she’d drawn after an acid trip as his thoughts raced. He had no idea what that country oaf was playing at, but he didn’t like it.  
“Come on, Renfiel- I mean, Adore,” he sniffed, wrapping a snake like arm around her malnourished frame and escorting her to the party room, where Nate was spinning experimental German harsh noise records from the 80’s to a coked up crowd, Shane Dawson was fending off financial offers for personal docuseries from the cast of Little Women LA, and Marilyn Manson was engrossed in a finger-banging three way with Tana and Bella.  
It was at a point in the night where it truly felt like all was right in Jeffree’s world and nothing could go wrong – but with the unsettling feeling he was being watched after his scuffle with Trixie, and his unwavering desire for blood spill only intensifying as the clock neared midnight, it would be the last….


	4. UPDATE!!!!

Hey hunties,  
First of all just want to say how full our hearts are with gratitude that you all love and appreciate this fic so much, we genuinely never thought it would get this much attention! we've both been super busy with school and university as of late - now things are quieter the next chapter is coming soon!!! so in the meantime wanted to keep you updated and post a lil "getting to know us"

There are two of us running this account; "Libia" and "Medb". We met a few years ago through the Blur fandom on tumblr (lmao) and have since become best friends in real life and for life. We started this account as a joke initially but genuinely enjoy writing these wild fics so much and it feels so great to see other people enjoying them too!

The update will be coming within the next month so keep your eyes peeled! There's so much more in store hennies

xxxxxxx


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